Souvenirs from Paris
by Stirack
Summary: Chris Markely is an average American college freshman- at least until you get to know her, that is. She tries to lead a normal life with her not-so-normal friends and equally insane family and school environment. Mix that with one spur of the moment vacation of Paris and a tour of the Palais Garnier, and she gains a few rather interesting souvenirs...
1. Chapter 1

"Holy. Friggin'. Crap. This. Place. Is. HUGE!" Ahh, Paris. My dream vacation. The only downside was that no one spoke English and the food tasted like curdled milk and cost as much as the plane ticket. Looking at a road map, I guessed that the bus had taken me into the middle of the city (Really I had no idea because I can't read a map to save my life). From the sky, the city had looked like one huge maze, as if some had built a city of skyscrapers and monuments and then plowed through it with a mega bulldozer. I had had the impulse to take a piece of paper, hold it up to the window, and try to figure the city-maze out… I did not succeed…

"Okay," I thought aloud, resuming the unhealthy habit I had for talking to myself. "The Louvre tour is at two, and right not it's one… so now I just need to find the Louvre…" My cell phone rang in my pocket, playing the all too familiar song Hero by Skillet. Digging a hand into my jeans' pocket, I pulled out my cell, an old silver Verizon Motorola, and answered it with an over done accent. "Bonjour, mon ami!"

"-Hey Chris, you there yet?-" Brooke's voice buzzed through the telephone.

"Yeah, I just landed a half hour ago. Going on the art tour in an hour."

"-…Lucky…-" Pooooooooor Brooke, her mother wouldn't let her come with me to Europe(Yes, her mother still tells her what to do…) … Really, we're both twenty three… I _think_ we can handle a little vacation without being attacked by ninjas or run into any other unusual circumstance.

"I'll make sure to take lots of pictures of the Opera Garnier for you, promise."

"-You better, or you can forget me over looking you making my laptop _explode.-_"

"IT WAS THE CAT! I DID NOT NOCK OVER THE FRIGGIN' DR. PEPER!"

"-Okay Stri, have fun. _Au revoir.-"_

"Chow." I hung up the cell with a click. "Okay…" I looked at the map again. "World's finest art, here I come!"

"WHERE'S THE BATHROOM?!" The tour guide looked at me, a rather funny expression on her face I might add, and answered me in French. I stuck my finger in my ear. "No hablo francés." I received an even more exasperated look. Finally, I pulled out my trusty dollar-store translator guide, flipping to the back. Looking back at the tour guide with more confidence I stated, "Oú je la salle?"

"Down the hall and to the right." The guide spoke in English this time. How _nice_ of her. With purpose to my step and digital camera around my neck, I left my little caravan of tourists to head down the hall and to the left… or was it right? After about ten minutes of looking, I finally found it, on the _right_ side of the hall. I'm _really _bad with directions, if no one has noticed yet. After I was out of the _salle_ (I'm practicing my French) I decided to ditch my tour and go off on my own, running from painting to painting flashing my camera, ignoring the **'NO FLASH PHOTAGRAPH'** sign that was actually in English. Stopping in front of the 'Mona Lisa', I stared for a little while, and then slowly raised my camera and snapped five pictures. I heard a security guard grunt with agitation in the background, and turning, bolted out of the room and into the next. I continued this process until I had successfully made it through the entire French art museum without getting sworn at, thrown out, or fined. I'd say that's a feat to be proud of.

I decided to rejoin my tour group before it exited the museum, making it seem as if I'd been a good girl for the whole trip. Once outside, I checked my watch. Geez! Seven o'clock? I'd better at least _see_ the Garnier's outside before the day was up, or I wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. As I finally took a good look around the city, I found that it was already a little too late for that. The sun was starting to set over the horizon of skyscrapers in the early winter evening, the air chilling to the point where I could see my breath billow from my mouth in white wisps. I pulled my light grey jacket around my shoulders more tightly, hoping to save as much body heat as I could.

"Damn," I muttered crossly, beginning to walk and read my map at the same time. It took me longer than I would have liked, but the gold tip of Apollo's lyre became visible in the rapidly fading light. I stopped, leaning into a side alley as I beheld a star of Paris. Though sadly smothered by the rest of the city surrounding it, the multitude of extensively colored columns in the visible front, which I noticed was strikingly similar to the Louvre, and smaller columns for decoration had a sort of lived-in look. The main entrance was foremost in the outer build, but if you looked more closely you noticed the other two side pavilions that contrasted with the monuments total symmetry.

"Beautiful… Just amazing…" I pressed my back to the redbrick wall of the alleyway, sighing with accomplishment. Though it was a little late to be trespassing, I didn't really care. This is what I'd come to Paris for. I smiled smugly. "Oh, I'm gonna rub this in Brookie's face sooo much… heh, heh…" As I marveled at the Opera in the fading light, I felt a hand brush my shoulder.

"_Bonjour, mademoiselle,"_ I spun around on my heels faster than I thought I possibly could, seeing three men my age behind me. I shrunk back, taking several cautious steps away.

"Uh… Bonjour…?" I replied meekly, shrinking back like a mouse surrounded by cats. The man who had tapped me on the shoulder smiled, seemingly amused.

"American, mademoiselle?" I nodded almost un-noticeably. Now, mind you, I wasn't an easy girl to scare. Meet my friends (Take Brooke for example) and you'll know why. I've probably lived through most of the horror films people cringe at (One time, at my buddy Luna-sama's birthday, we chased each other around with butcher knives!). I was paranoid. I was a female, American tourist, alone at night in the middle of a Paris alley surrounded by three grown men. I'd really been watching too many crime shows lately.

"Umma… I uh…" I glanced at my watch frantically. Eight o'clock. "I have to get to my hotel…" I noticed one of the men had walked around behind me, as hard as I had tried to keep them in my sight. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap! The man behind me ran a hand over my shoulder. I yelped, my spine going as straight as a ramrod. And then, everything got even better!

"Oh, there you are, _mon cherie_,"

A darker shadow than the surrounding blackness seemed to materialize out of nowhere, gliding across the blacktop without making a sound… wait, _what did he call me?_

The man behind me shot over to the other two in his group as the black shadow moved over towards me. The shadow shot to my side quickly, yet reluctantly, making me gasp as a hand clasped my forearm. It wasn't the force and roughness of the shadow that had shocked me so, but rather the stone cold boney thing that _had_ grabbed me, which possessed an inhuman coolness that seeped through my thin jacket and straight to my skin. Besides this odd trait, I then noticed the shadow's imposing height, for I only reached up to his shoulder at best. Not, mind you, I'm an average five foot eight, but right then I felt like a friggin' midget.

"…So… this is your girl?"

I think the shadow man smiled, it was impossible to tell, for the collar of his heavy and extravagant ebony cloak and wide brimmed black hat hid his face entirely. I paled at the sound of the shadow's soft laughter, and apparently the other Frenchies heard him to, for their faces turned a sick green. The three men swore in French (the one thing I _had_ studied extensively) and my not-so-shining-and-a-little-less-valiant knight/savior responded to them in their native language. The shadow spoke with unquestionable command, his voice possessing and uncanny resonance, and like stiff marionettes the three men scurried off. I turned to scurry in the opposite direction, but the shadow didn't release my arm. Dread and terror began to eddy my mind with full force again. Now this is what I get for going on vacation in a city of friggin' pigs…

"They're in the alley, you incompetent American. If they see you leave alone, you will have much more to worry about than a lack of courteous speech." I peered into the alley, my neck stuck out, but was unable to see anyone. I was about to challenge Monsieur Tall Dark and Scary, but was silenced as I was able to catch his eyes through the folds of his cloak collar. Two yellow gems stared back with contempt.

So, much to my displeasure, and the contempt of Monsieur Tall Dark Scary _and_ Rude, he led me out of sight of the alley, and surprisingly towards the Garnier. We stopped at the employee entrance, where my strange rescuer released my forearm. I jumped back like a frightened deer at gunpoint.

"Get out of here. Do not come near this Opera House again, lest I choose to enjoy the show rather than cancel it." He turned his back as I tried to catch a glimpse of his face. There was an awkward silence… not that that had become unusual.

"…Sooo… What's your name…?"

"Get out of here."

"Listen bucko, I don't normally thank people, so this is a rare occasion. At least give me your first name so I can properly thank you." I stabbed my finger in his direction to emphasize my words. He crossed his arms slowly, his painfully thin and angular frame betraying his anger.

"Get away from my Opera House."

"_Your_ Opera house? Who are you, the manager?"

"_LEAVE."_

"Name please."

"Insufferable child! Get out of here!"

"No. Nombre, por favor."

"Damn it all!" He threw his arms into the air, exasperated. He turned on me with all the speed of a cat, pointing a thin, black gloved hand towards me. "If I tell you, will you leave and preferably never come back?"

"Sí."

I think he rolled his eyes in defeat. I couldn't really tell, you know, considering his face was so shadowed over. "…Erik…"

"Okay, was that so hard? Now I'll return the favor. My name is Chris." His gaze flicked over in my direction.

"…Chris? That's a rather odd name for a woman."

"Well _monsieur_, Erik isn't a very French name. Chris is just my nickname. I don't really like my full name."

"…Well, what is it?" The stiffness to his frame had loosened ever so slightly, and the anger in his voice was beginning to slowly change to curiosity. What a contradiction. I sighed.

"If you _must_ know, my full name is Christine."

"…What?"

"Christine, monsieur. What about it?" I frowned at the back of his head as he turned away from me again. I reached out to grab the edge of his cloak as he began to quickly stride, which was like jogging for me, in the direction of the Garnier. My fingers grasped nothing but air as he dove into the darkness of the employee entrance. "Hey! What did I say?" I yelled into the darkness, but he had already disappeared.

_ "Stay away from my Opera House, mademoiselle, and be forewarned lest you return in your ignorance: this is my Kingdom of Darkness in which you so boldly trespass. Returning to my theater would mean certain death on your part. HEED MY WARNING AND LEAVE."_

The voice of a master ventriloquist swirled around me, raising the hair on the back of my neck. God… Some vacation _this _was turning out to be…

"…Okay… maybe I _should_ be renewing my passport a little early…"


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi! Since I'm new to FF, I'm still working out all the the little things that go into uploading my stories. I apologize ahead of time for any of my chapters which contain French, as I do not speak French, only English and tolerable Spanish ^^; Read, review, and favorite please! **

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

"HOLY FORTE!" The alarm clock squealed like a demented [insert small dog of choice]. I, on the other hand, let out a lovely shriek and fell out of the single bed in my modest hotel room, smacking my head off the corner of the nightstand. The book sitting on the nightstand soon joined me on the floor. I groaned, curling up in a ball on the floor and dragging the blanket from the bed down around my shoulders. "Too much information… too many big words… can't compute… system overload…" I droned, letting out another miserable groan. The cover of the book on the plush carpeting read, **'Musical History of the Palais Garnier and Other Strange Occurrences Backstage'**.

Does the name itself give you migraines? _Try reading the whole thing in one night._ Did I mention that there were six hundred pages with microscopic print? Yeah. Gooooooooood times.

Crawling across the floor on all fours, I slumped to the bathroom, clawing my way up the sink and standing in front of the mirror. I yawned. My dark brown hair was, at the moment, defying the gravitational laws of the universe, so I washed my hands in the sink and attempted to flatten the mass of unruly curls with the water. On the third attempt, I gave up, deciding it was better to pull out the trusty hair iron. As I began the chore of brushing and straightening my naturally curly hair, I contemplated on what I had read the night before, my eyelids still flickering open and shut over my ice blue eyes.

There had been a whole friggin' truckload of pages just about music theory and the different famous performers and musicians that had resided at the Opera. It helped that I was already an amateur musician in my college's concert band, so I could at least understand most of the rambling of the crazy author of that blasted book. What had really caught my eye was the whole other half of the book that was completely about true, mysterious happenings at the Garnier. There were innumerable unexplained occurrences in the early 1880's, and what _really _had me interested was the reoccurring theme of the Opera Ghost. Of course, as almost any American female does, I knew about the infamous Phantom of the Opera. Really, even if you don't like music, who didn't? The tragic tale of a mad, disfigured, and musically endowed composer who had lived in the cellars of the Opera and fallen in love with a beautiful singer was possibly my favorite story. Of course, it was only a sad legend brought to the public by Gaston Leroux's book in 1910, finally made into a worldwide phenomenon by Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical sensation in the 80's. To me, the book had been rather good and bloody hilarious, and the musical was gold (Ah, Michael Crawford… how I love your voice… and your hat…). It was one of the few stories that could bring a tear to my eye, which was saying something.

After taking a moment to fangirl inside my head, I made quicker work of my stubborn hair and dressed for the day. I decided to wear something a little nicer for the special occasion today, choosing a long sleeve button up crimson shirt and a white tank top underneath, along with a black layered skirt that reached a bit past my knees. Just for the pure sake of my fancy costume (That was about all it was- I would never dress in anything besides jeans and t-shirts if I could) I pulled on black stockings so as to go with my black leather combat boots (love those boots…!). Standing at attention, I examined myself in the full length bathroom mirror. Even after working on it with the hair iron, the straightest my dark brown curls could get was what it was now, a noticeable, crimping wave cutting in sharply around my neck and then continuing to my lower back. I was too lazy to put my contacts in today, so my black and silver, rectangular rimmed glasses made me look like an attorney (Or jail warden, either way). I folded over the collar of the dress shirt, smoothing my wrinkles in my skirt.

"…Too fancy." I turned from the mirror, throwing my hands into the air dismissively. I hated skirts and dresses and I had no idea why I even bought any. Shrugging off my discomfort, I went back into the bedroom/living room, checking the clock. 9:00. "Right on time." I grabbed a coat, my dark blue Sony camera, and my tourist satchel (NOT a purse…), heading for the door. Before I left the hotel room, I turned and spoke to the empty air.

"Palais Garnier, here I come." With a satisfied grin, I turned, heading out the door. The Garnier was the reason I had come to France. I wasn't about to let some bossy creep tell me what to do on _my_ vacation. "Just to try to stop me,_ Erik…_ whoever the hell you are…"

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSS!" I pumped both my fists into the air in triumph. "IT'S SOOOOO AMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAZING!" Jittering like a five year old on pop rocks, I whipped my head back and forth, taking in the glorious sight of the Opera Garnier. The grand foyer stretched out before me, the thousands of mirrors that made up the wall reflecting the many people and the glint of the chandelier high above. I snapped as many pictures as I could, jogging through the foyer and down the next hall, sucking in a breath at the sight before me.

"…Masquerade…" I jumped up the horseshoe grand staircase two steps at a time, standing at the first landing. My eyes followed the many other tourists on the onyx balconies around me. "_Doo… doo…_ _doo… doo…_" I took each step slowly, purposefully. "_…Why so silent, good messieurs?_"

Oh, yes I did. what true Phan wouldn't?

"_Did you think that I had left you for good? Have you missed me, good messieurs, I have written you an opera!"_ I pulled a random piece of scrap paper from my satchel, holding it above my head.

People glanced my way as they walked by, and a heard more than one person murmur, "…Crazy American fangirl…" Really, I couldn't care less. If I had any dignity once so ever, it disappeared right about then.

_"Here I bring the finished score, DON JUAN TRIUMPHANT!"_

With a loud bang I jumped down the remaining four steps, landing on the tips of my toes. I straightened, as if nothing particularly odd had transpired. "My life is complete." Dusting off my skirt, I went back up the stairs, swerving to the right and taking another flight of stairs to the stage boxes. "One, two, three…" I read the number on each door aloud. "Four… FIVE!"

Taking a deep breath, I opened to stage box door. Stepping in, I examined each armchair with a keen eye. They weren't new, far from it, and yet all of the seats were unworn, as if they had never been used. All except one. The far right chair looked like the one to have any wear at all. Walking up to the armchair, I examined it more closely. Besides a few shabby spots were the velvet had been worn, there was one piece of damage that caught my eye. On the left arm of the chair, there was a clean rip were one's hand would rest while sitting in the chair. Cautiously, I sat down in the chair, placing my arms on the chair's. I noticed that the rip was caused by a missing brass button right were my hand rested. It looked as if someone had continuously, maybe even unconsciously, scratched and picked at the button until it finally ripped off. It seemed to me something someone would do out of nervousness. I shook my head, standing from the chair. "Too much to think about…" I muttered crossly. I leaned out over the side of the box, looking out over the auditorium and stage. My eyes rested on the chandelier. I found myself smiling.

"_Behold!"_ I quoted, "_Madame Carlotta is singing to bring down the chandelier!"_ I laughed to myself.

_"If you do not heed my warning and leave, I might fancy having the chandelier hop of its hook once again!"_ I froze, looking all over the box.

"Who's there?" I called into the back reaches of the box. No one answered or appeared before me. My face twisted with a pout as I stomped all around the box, looking for the owner of the voice. "Stop playing games! Where are you?" I muttered, not intending for anyone to here.

_"I'm here!"_

I heard the voice over by the worn box chair. Turning the corner, no one was there. Weariness began to ebb the back of my mind. "I'm hearing spirits," I said dryly, not truly meaning it.

_"Not a spirit, a ghost!"_ and the faceless voice snickered cruelly. I, on the other hand, paled even more than I already had. As fast as I could, I exited the box, slamming the door shut behind me. I finally noticed the **'Employees Only'** sign on the door of Box Five.

"Oops…" I backed away from the door. "Maybe I can get out of here without anyone knowing-"

"Hey! You can't be up here!"

"Oh bugger."

Now, a normal person would have stayed where they were and gotten scolded. I for one and not a normal person, so I did something that, unbeknownst to me at the time, would change my life forever (Yes, that sounds really cheesy and cliché, but it is _totally_ true). I ran away from the approaching employee, having no sense of where I was going and only that I didn't want to get in any trouble. I went from hall to hall, down at least a dozen staircases, and finally I found myself in a deserted hallway. This part of the building wasn't restored and there was no electricity. So we're talking almost total darkness.

With my arms stretched out in front of me, I began down the hallway. I finally spotted a single door in the blackness, and, having nowhere else to go, tried the knob and with relief found it was unlocked. I was disappointed to find myself in an enclosed room, not another hallway. I was even more disappointed to find that the room was barren, save a huge mirror I guessed was bolted into the wall. I strode up to the full mirror, examining my reflection. I had a sudden impulse to reach out and touch the mirror, and, with tentative fingers, brushed the glassy surface. I ran my hand over the reflective glass, until I felt something odd under my finger. A depression in the glass. With my index finger I pressed on the depression, which gave way beneath my hand. With something that resembled the groan of an old, fat, lazy cat, the mirror began to slide back. I stood with open mouth shock. A dark, wet passage stretched out before me.

"…No way…" I examined the room around me more closely. It was a dressing room. "…No… _God no."_ I waved my hands frantically at the mirror. "…Go back to normal!" The sheet of glass didn't reappear as I had hoped it would. I ran back to the dressing room door, grabbing the knob and intending to distance myself from this impossible situation. The knob jiggled in place, but didn't budge. Of _course_ I was locked in. What else could I expect? "What do you want?" I shouted to the empty air. I had to force out my next words, no matter how ridiculous they sounded. "Don't play games with _me_… Phantom." My eyes darted to the passageway. Was that a violin I just heard? I shook my head, but the humming didn't go away.

Right now, I had two choices. One: wait for the slight chance that someone might come down this deserted hall and help me, which could take a friggin' billion years. Two: Take my chances with the secret passage, and possibly get lost and never find my way out. I took a deep breath, gathering my courage. "Fine," I stated, standing in the mouth of the passage. "I'll play your game." As I stepped through the mirror's frame, the glass slid back into place behind me. I didn't flinch. The soft laughter of a disembodied voice floated on the thin air around me.

_"Bonne. C'est plus amusant quand les autres jouent. Bienvenue dans mon Royaume des ténèbres, mademoiselle._ _"_

I didn't respond as the voice began to laugh again. I only contemplated what it had said. 'Good. It is more fun when others play. Welcome to my Kingdom of Darkness, mademoiselle.' First it tells me to leave, and now it welcomes me to its _kingdom._ In the back of my mind, I had a sneaking suspicion about the man who had saved me the night before and told me to never return after hearing my name. Though I didn't want to admit it, somehow, someway, the Phantom's opera was being rewritten, and now I was a main character.


	3. Chapter 3

**A little round of applause to HawkfrostsAvenger (Haru/Sin/Hawky) for making a special appearance in this chapter and chapter one, which I forgot to mention earlier. Also, since I haven't mentioned it yet, I own NOTHING PotO, only Chris and her stubborn American-ness. Ben Lewis owns his own reputation for not blinking.**

** On with the show! Read, review, and favorite if you love!**

When planning my trip to Paris, I'd really never expected to go wandering through an unlit, one hundred and fifty year old passage underneath the Opera Garnier. I was beginning to think that I should have stayed home for winter break.

I succeeded in tripping every five steps in the slippery passage, and soon my stocking were ripped and my knees were raw. The darkness seemed to stretch on infinitely, and when I began to think that I would be stuck in there forever, a sound broke the total darkness. Splash. Splash. Picking up my pace and ignoring my throbbing knees, I rushed forward to where I spotted a dying lantern hung on the stone wall. The fitful gleams of light revealed, even though not in great detail, the source of the splashing. I frowned. "So, there really is a lake down here." I looked behind me to the passage. At some point, I must have headed downhill, for if memory served me I remembered the Phantom of the Opera book telling me that the lake was in the fifth cellar. I shook my head. Great. You know you're in deep trouble when you're going off a supposedly fictional book from 1910 for directions.

I also spotted a small rowboat fastened to an iron wharf farther down the shore, rocking to and fro (…did I really just use that expression…?) in the inky black waves. The dying lantern told me that the voice, for I wasn't going to believe for one moment it was a real ghost, must have just passed through here. There was just one problem with this assumption. If he, for it was unmistakably a man's voice, had come through here, then he would have had to go across the lake… unless he was still-

My thought process was jarred to a blaring halt as the lantern died and I was left in total darkness. Bloody hell, I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face! I stayed rooted to my spot, for I feared falling into the lake and not being able to find the shore or some other deadly trap. As I whipped my head back and forth, the flicker of what I guessed to be two candles caught my eye. The candles went out for half a second, and then blinked back. Then they began, slowly but surely, to come closer, rising higher and higher above my head. Though I shivered from the cold and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of fear, I did my best to look courageous and defiant.

"…Monsieur Erik." I addressed the two flickering candles. They narrowed to small, glaring slits. I squeezed my eyes shut as to not look into the gaze of who I guessed could match Lord Fluffy ( :D ) in death glares. I waited a good long minute. I opened one eye. The candles were still there, only know they looked rather exasperated. "Aren't you going to kill me?" my voice cracked, though I tried to hide it.

"…Do you want me to kill you?"

"I have three dogs to feed and if I'm dead they might eat my new sofa."

"Charming."

Suddenly, the shore was lit by a lantern that my dark and creepy companion seemed to have pulled from thin air. Again I was dwarfed by the ever so slight intimidating Monsieur Tall Dark Scary and Rude, his ebony cloak fwooshing (Is that a word…?) through the air and reminding me of Ryuk's wings from Deathnote. I finally saw the black mask that covered his whole face- save his mouth and chin- that confirmed the impossible. In the light of the lantern, his inhuman golden eyes seemed to almost disappear, the unnervingly intense hue of them being replaced by an almost white, pale yellow. He reset his wide brimmed fedora at a rakish angle on his head, shielding his eyes from my view. "I'm not going to kill you," he muttered, almost disappointedly. "So if you don't want to be lost down her until you die from starvation, I suggest you follow me." Without another word, he glided, for he made less noise than a stalking cat when he walked, across the shore at a surprising pace and jumped into the row boat. Wearily, I began to jog to the boat as he began to untie it. With unsure steps, I crept into the boat, doing my best not to fall into the water. I sat down as far away as I could from my skeletal escort, my knees locking together as I remembered I was wearing a skirt. I felt the slight trickle of blood seep through my ragged stockings as the newly forming scabs on my knees cracked painfully. Erik kicked off shore and grabbed the oars, beginning across the black waters of the underground lake. In the awkward silence, I removed my glasses and began to rub at a smudge anxiously with the edge of my shirt. As I glance up at the dark man across from me, he appeared no more than a mismatched blur. Trust me, it's not an exaggeration when I say I have the eyesight of Velma from Scooby-Doo.

The boat touched the opposite shore with a light thud, Erik automatically jumping out without offering me any help. To my surprise, he waited for me by the boat. I clambered out awkwardly, nearly tipping the sorry little excuse for a rowboat as I tripped awkwardly onto shore. Before I hit the hard gravel, a rough hand grabbed my arm, hauling me back onto my feet so I could reclaim my balance. Erik quickly backed away as I searched his hauntingly expressionless, mask face. He started forward, lantern in hand. I followed without question, shivering as the underground coolness finally seeped through my clothes and raised goose bumps on my skin. Though the shivers only lasted a short while, for in an instant I was suddenly blinded by light in the seemingly endless dark. I stood in a drawing room, lit by hundreds of black morning candles mounted on the walls in candelabras and resting in silver trays on end tables. The walls were all hung in black and crimson red, making the place seem dark and mysterious. An ebony grand piano was the highlight of the room, along with two whole walls of shelves packed with books and whatnot. Music scores lay strewn across the floor and any other available place. In other words, it was a total train wreck.

"Ever thought of vacuuming?" I muttered under my breath. Once he reached the middle of the room, his back still turned towards me, he whisk his cloak from his shoulders and fedora from his head, setting them both across a chair (Oh. My. Gosh… the hat is even more amazing than Michael Crawford's… must… steal… amazing… HAT!). Slowly, he turned back towards me, smoothing back his inky black hair with a gloved hand. I was still startled by the bland, expressionless look of his black masked face, and the only way I could tell he was completely exasperated was by his stiff stance and the way his lips were drawn out in a thin, pale line. "I'm not telepathic, so say something out loud." I rested one hand on my hip. He remained mute. "Or just continue to burn a hole through my skull with that lovely death glare."

"If only I were capable of such a feat, mademoiselle."

"RUDE!" I threw my arms into the air dismissively, making my way over to one particularly messy end table. As I reached out to rearrange loose papers, Erik's commanding voice stopped me in my tracks.

"_Don't. Touch. Anything._" He grated out each word through clenched teeth. My head swung in his direction, and if it had been a cartoon, smoke would have been coming out of my ears.

"THEN CLEAN IT YOURSELF! I HAVE OCD, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO?!"

"I expect you to stay away from all my belongings, mademoiselle." His cool speech made me snap. I stomped up to him, and, before he could step out of my reach, I grabbed the collar of his suit coat and pulled his face down to my height. He let out a little yelp, his arms going straight down to his sides as if they were weighted.

"You listen to me, _bucko_. I haven't the slightest idea why you brought me here. Why, the night before you told me to never return! The only thing I know is that I'm here now. If I'm going to be stuck here, I will not be bored out of my wits in the meantime." I took a deep, cleansing breath. I released his collar and crossed my arms calmly. I took another deep breath, and then exploded like TNT. "NOW TELL ME WHY THE HELL YOU BROUGHT ME HERE!" By the look on Erik's face I'd say he was bewildered, if it were possible. He really didn't know who he was dealing with. "ANSWER ME." My eye twitched. Before I had the chance to throttle him, that soon to become annoying Skillet song began to go off in my pocket. Blinking slowly, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, looking at the front screen.

"How is it I have great reception down here?" I glanced at Erik, whose eyes were fixed on my phone in confusion. Shrugging, I flipped it open.

"…Hello…?"

"-STRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!-"

"Haru!" I pulled the phone away from my ear an inch or two at Brittany's screech. I swore mentally as I caught the look on Erik's face. Pair that with my phone's deafening volume, and you get a not-so-private conversation.

"-Stri,-" I heard her sniff back acted tears on the other side of the line. "-When are you coming home? I'm _lonely…-"_ She sniffled again. I rolled my eyes.

"Where's your cat?" I asked seriously.

"-I don't know…-"

"What did you do Haru?" If not for the situation I was really in at the moment, I would have laughed.

"-…Well… he was trying to eat my Sebastian plushy again… so I threw him outside on the porch… he kinda climbed the balcony and went into your room… and ate your music folder…-" I frowned into my phone.

"Haru! Can you please keep Ace on your side of the house? I'm just glad I took all my sheet music with me."

"-Oh yeah, don't you have a concert when you come back? Speaking of which… _when will you be HOME?"_ I heard something glass break on her line. Giving a rough sigh, I wasn't in the mood to find out what.

"Three weeks, Haru, three weeks. Dear Lord, I just left three days ago!" I heard Brittany sigh as well. The click of her fingernails tapping on a computer keyboard was the only sound for a brief second.

"-Okay, Stri. I guess I'll talk to you later then?-"

"Yeah, love you Haru!"

"-Love you too, Stri! … Hey, why does it sound like you're in a cave?-" I glared at my masked company.

"I, uh… you're breaking up Haru…" I scratched on phone. "Tell my babies I love them, bye!" I snapped the phone shut, replacing it in my pocket. I dared to steal a glance at Erik. His head was cocked to one side, his mouth quirked to an awkward angle. His whole person screamed, _'What the hell just happened?'_ The other question I could see in his eyes made my shoulders sag.

"No, I'm not old enough to have _actual_ children… I already told you, I have three dogs… and a chicken…" I twisted a strand of hair around my fingertip. There was a moment of awkward silence, my strangling of Erik forgotten from my talk with Brittany. To my complete surprise, maestro was the first one to speak.

"…What kind of concert?" Erik leaned forward on the tips of his toes as if to inch closer to me, but the concept was lost because of the fact that we were standing several feet apart. I stuck my hands in my pockets.

"A Christmas band concert." Something seemed to light up behind his saffron eyes as he took a small, experimental step towards me.

"You… you like music?" He inquired slowly. I raised an eyebrow.

"If I didn't like music, why on Earth would I have come to one of the most famous opera houses in the world? And I thought _you_ were supposed to be a genius…"

"What do you play?" Again, the childish curiosity of this dark, morbid-looking man stumped me.

"Clarinet," I answered. "And a little piano… but I'm a clarinet player."

"Piano?" he echoed quietly, his head turning slightly towards his huge grand piano in the right back corner of the drawing room. I gave him a little nod.

"Just a little… truthfully, I can't really read the sheet music for it, but I can play by ear… I mainly just listen to piano music." There was a slight slipping of fabric and a light tap of leather as Erik shift his weight from foot to foot.

"…Would you like to hear some music?" that formerly commanding and thunderous voice was now no more than an unsure, timid whisper. I thought for a moment, but then decided that it was the best way to get some type of conversation going and at the very least figure a way out of there. Something in the back of my mind was still screaming, _"HOW THE BLOODY HELL IS ANY OF THIS EVEN REAL?! WHY AM I CALMLY SITTING IN THE DRAWING ROOM OF THE PHANTOM OF THE FREAKING OPERA?!"_

"Yes, I suppose I would."

Erik's shoulders seemed to lift a little higher, and with a short nod towards the divan near the piano, he took three long strides to the bench. I picked my way across the messy drawing room, placing myself on the black, leather divan, doing my best to smooth out my crumpled skirt. The masked maestro threw his coat tails out behind him as he placed his painfully thin figure upon the ornately carved, oak piano bench, slipping his black gloves off his hands and throwing them over his shoulder carelessly. My eyes followed his gloves as they landed in the middle of the floor. I was itching to pick them up and place them on the table, but I resisted the urge to clean the train wreck that was Erik's house. _Isn't this place supposed to be spotless?_ My thoughts drifted to the description of the house across the lake from Leroux's novel. Again, you know you literally have nothing else to help you when you're going off a supposedly fictional book from 1910.

"…Would Mozart suffice?"

I broke away from my thoughts at Erik's tentative question. I gave him a small, brief nod. By the small quirk of his mouth, I think he was trying to smile, but it seemed he thought better of it and gave up the concept. I folded my hands in my lap, leaning back into comfortable black leather couch. I watched as the masked maestro laid his hands on the piano, gently caressing the keys with the tips of his fingers. As he pressed the first keys, I was transfixed. My eyes followed his fingers as they flew across the keyboard, as if God himself had made those hands for perfect reach on the piano. It was like watching a gripping action movie- you didn't want to blink in fear of missing the best part (But of course I had to blink anyway… unlike friggin' Ben Lewis… _has ANYONE seen that Australian actor blink?)._ I swayed gently to the flow of the music, unconsciously tapping the beat with the heel of my boot. I noticed, through dreary, drooping eyes that Erik too was engulfed in the magic of divine sound, but ultimately more so than I believe I could ever be. The soft lilt of the _Dies Irae_ seemed sadly empty, though. I mean, a famous requiem without its lyrics was hardly a requiem at all, if you thought about it. But, to my surprise, Erik remained strangely mute. I had quite expected him to sing- subconsciously, I'd eagerly awaited to hear such an angelic voice as I knew he would unquestionably possess. When the music's last cord reverberated and finally died within my ears, I sighed with hidden ecstasy and leaned back into the plush couch cushions.

"What inhuman beauty…" I murmured to myself, not meaning for O.G. to hear.

"Every rose has its thorn, though." The eccentric composer laughed painfully, his frail shoulders shaking with the effort. One skeletal, deathly white hand slid over the black mask on his face. "What's wrong with you?" he muttered, his voice suddenly cross. I cocked an eyebrow, crossing my arms and leaning over the back of the divan as I used to do as a small child in my parents' house.

"Do you want the short list, or the long list? Or, the medium sized list, which is just as descriptive. What the hell kinda question is that?" I fixed my glasses, pushing them farther up the bridge of my nose with annoyance. Erik stood from the piano bench, tugging at his crimson, gold embroidered waistcoat, the chain of a silver pocket watch peeking out of the vest. He began to pace around the piano like an agitated child who hadn't gotten his way. I found it comical in my morbid little world of humor.

But hey, that's just me. Says the girl who burst out laughing in the middle of the movie theater at the age of five when Bambie's mom got shot.

My short attention span was brought back to Erik as he scowled. "What is wrong with you?" he repeated, a warning note of anger rising in his voice. I jumped from the divan, a hand on my hip and my lips jut out in a pout.

"At the moment, nothing that isn't usual. I should ask what's wrong with you and what you think is wrong with me. You were fine a moment ago at the piano." I shrugged my shoulders in question.

"Why are you not running away?" he gasped, halting so suddenly in his pacing that the thick Persian carpet wrinkled beneath his shoes. "How are you not frightened of me? _She _was, why aren't you?" Those startlingly pale saffron eyes met mine, and this time I held there intense gaze.

I knew exactly who _she _was. The girl who broke his little black heart…

I huffed the air out of my lungs between clenched teeth. "What is there to be afraid of? Yeah, you're a little creepy and morbid-looking and have a hell of a temper, but seriously, you should meet my friends. I'll show you scary." I managed to smile a little. He shook his head harshly.

"No, no, you should be scared of me. I'm a freak."

"Join the club, _maestro._"

"I'm a monstrous freak…"

"Congrats. As I said before, join the club bonehead."

"NO! You don't understand, you ignorant fool!" He lunged forward until we were stand inches from one another. His already white knuckles turned whiter as his long fingers gripped the front of the mask. "You don't know what _this_ hides!" I squared my shoulder and tried to look as tall as possible with my five feet and six inches compared to the six foot four living corpse staring me down like a lion does a baby antelope.

"Oh, _contrariant, _monsieur!"

"What?"

"I do know as a matter of fact! … or at least I have an idea… I've seen all the movies after all…"

_"WHAT?!"_

"You great bucket-head! Do you even have any idea what year it is? It's the friggin' twenty first century, and because of a certain Gaston Leroux, _you're a freaking masked legend!"_


	4. Chapter 4

**/Hi again. First off, I'd like to ask why I've had quite a few people reading this story, yet no one is reviewing (Favoriting aside, but I ****_would_**** appreciate it :D) Though I wrote this story a little ways back in time, I'd still like to know what you think of if and reviews really are very helpful. It would make me very happy~ *Give puppy dog eyes* So pretty please, with cherries and Micheal Crawford's hat on top?**

**Anyway, song goes to AC/DC, and not cats were drowned so as to make Chris's singing voice any more awful. PotO is owned by the by the public domain, but I'll still give a right tip of the hat to good old Leroux!/**

_"Living easy, living free,_

_Season ticket on a one-way ride_

_Asking nothing, leave me be_

_Taking everything in my stride-"_

"~Don't need reason, don't need rhyme- ain't nothing I'd rather do!~"

Oh yeah. I AM that sad.

_"Going down, party time_

_My friends are gonna be there too-"_

"~Yeah,… I'M ON A HIIIIIIIIIIGHWAY TO HEEEELL! ON A HIIIIIIIIIIIGHWAY TO HEE- AHHH! SOAP BUBBLES IN MY EEEEEYES! CURSE YOU LOREAL!"

I guess right about now would be the perfect time to explain why the hell I was back at my hotel room, in the shower, singing along really out of tune to AC/DC music with Bon Scott on Pandora Radio.

It all started with the interwebs.

No, seriously, I'm not kidding. I had my Kindle with me in my satchel at the Opera House and somehow I was picking up the managers' wifi five stories underground. Anyway, _flashback time!_

/Erik's mouth quirked questioningly, his hand still raised with one finger pointing in the air from when he was still ready to continue with our argument. "…Leroux?" he questioned incredulously, "Do you mean that nosy, fat reporter from the 'Epoque' that began snooping around here after the chandelier… _accident?"_ He spoke the word 'accident' almost smugly- enough so that I had a wish to punch the snob in the head.

"The same, maestro… you _do_ know what year it is… right? I hope you realize that 1881 is a LONG way off from when we are now."

Of course I do!" he snapped angrily, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth with impatience. If I had known any better, I'd say O.G.'s face flushed with embarrassment beneath the mask. "…When are we… exactly?" The palm of my hand met my forehead with exasperation.

"It's 2012 smarty-pants." I waited with a hand on my hip for his response. He remain extremely calm at first, and then this happened-

**_"Ce que l'enfer sanglant?! Pour l'amour de tout ce qui est musique-"_**

"Okay maestro. Settle down before you have a stroke… and switch back to English, if you please." I reached out cautiously, so as not to have my arm removed from its joint and chucked across the room, and patted the Phantom on the shoulder. "Why don't you sit down while I go and try to figure out how to make tea? Do you have chamomile? I think we could both use it." Erik didn't protest as I led him to the settee and sat him down, fixing the ruffled black and crimson throw pillows while I was at it. God, that place was as messy a bachelor's lair as I'd ever seen… I think I actually saw something move under the couch! As I turned to go and find the kitchen, Erik barely brushed my sleeve in an attempt to stop me.

"No, wait! Mademoiselle… _please _explain this all to me." The word 'please' also seemed to stick in his mouth, only that time it seemed much more painful than smug. I grumbled under my breath, sitting in the armchair across from Erik.

"Where do I even start-"

"The beginning seems the most logical answer."

"That was a rhetorical question, smartass."

"That is very unladylike talk, Miss Markely."

"Why don't you shut the hell up before I give you a very unladylike hand sign." I had to bite my lip in an attempt to control my fury enough not slap that smug look off his face. He called me insufferable?

And so, once again the pot calls the kettle black.

I pulled my Kindle from my bag, removing it from its case while Erik gave it an inquisitive stare.

"What is-"

"Technology, dear maestro. Don't ask right now." I opened the internet browser, pulling up the Wikipedia page for Gaston Leroux's 'The Phantom of the Opera'. Turning the screen towards my masked companion, I motioned for him to read it while I flipped the pages for him. He said not a word nor gave away a hint of his emotions as I first had him read the summary of Leroux's book, and then pulled up the actual book and had him read the introduction Gaston Leroux himself had written, claiming the Opera Ghost existed.

Now came the REALLY fun part.

Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical!

My first thought was to show him the wiki page for it as well, but then decided against it for a more _fun_ explanation.

The title song with Michael Crawford and Sara Brightman would do. As the first chords of the song began, maestro gave a baffled look, completely stunned and unsure of how all that music was coming out of my little Kindle. Before he could question this as well, I raised a hand for silence. "Shh," I whispered. "You're ruining your own song," I hummed in time with the music, only cringing when Sara Brightman tried to hit notes beyond her skill and swaying and smiling when Michael's angelic voice washed away the trauma of hearing Sara screech like a dying parrot.

When the song ended, I watched as Erik leaned forward with one elbow resting on his crossed legs and a fist to his mouth. His words shouldn't have surprised, but they did all the same.

"Mon dieu, that woman was worse than La Carlotta with a hangnail."

"The 1980's, my dear Phantom. Don't question it, only enjoy what you can of it."/

And so, thus the real Opera ghost learned of his copycats and many fangirls- including yours truly- and we all live happily ever after, the End.

Haha, that's a good one.

What really happened was a conversation like this after about three and a half hours of making him listen to ALW's music and explaining his little love triangles claim to fame.

/"Hey, maestro?"

"Yes, Miss Markely?"

"Can I go back to my hotel now?"

"I'm afraid that won't be quite possible, mademoiselle." I huffed angrily and crossed my arms.

"And why, pray tell, is it not?" Erik shrugged nonchalantly.

"It's very simple- you know where Erik lives. I can't allow you out of here now." I threw my arms into the air in total exasperation.

"OH, COME ON!" I ripped at my hair and glared at him, jumping to my feet. "Do you _really _think me, Miss Couldn't-Find-Her-Way-To-The-Louvre-When-She-Had-A -Map-In-Her-Face-And-Nearly-Got-Hit-By-A-Car-In-Th e-Process, would be able to find my way down here again, in the dark, and across the lake without toppling the boat and drowning myself? Let alone tell anyone else and be able to show them the way in the first place? And plus," I explained pointedly, "One, no one would believe me if I did say anything and I would most likely be locked in a loony bin if I tried, and two- why would I turn in my favorite literary masked musical genius of all time? I'm totally on your side dude- 'Death to Raoul' and all that crap. Rethink the situation quickly, Mr. Opera Ghost, because I have leftover mac and cheese just calling out to me in the refrigerator back at my hotel- and my stomach is eating itself as we speak."/

And so, I came to be in my current situation- screaming bloody murder in the bathroom as if I were about to be brutally murdered by Freddy Krueger all for the sake of a few soap suds in my corneas. "Owww… OWWWW… PAIN…" I finished rinsing the rest of the aforementioned demonic soap from my soaked brunette curls, then proceeding to jump out of the shower as fast as I could and over to the sink to wash out my eyes, slopping water everywhere in the process. "Ugg…" I rested my forearms on the sink, my sopping mass of hair flinging water across the mirror.

_"And I'm going down, all the way down_

_I'm on a highway to HELL-"_

The tube of toothpaste flew across the room with practiced aim and hit the mute key on my laptop. "That's enough now, Bon Scott. Chrissy's in pain and would like to wallow in it in silence." I rubbed my temples with pruned fingertips, wrapping my hair in a towel and piling it atop my head before drying off and throwing on a baggy tee shirt with a picture of my pet chicken ironed on it and sweatpants. Exiting the water soaked bathroom and still rubbing the sting out of my eyes, I was greeted with an even greater and more powerful headache.

One that came dressed in black evening wear and felt inclined to break into my hotel room uninvited.

"I say, Miss Markely- if you don't mind me commenting- your singing is very similar to the screeching of a drowning feline with a lung infection."

"Oh, maestro. Your flattery is so very endearing. Now get out of my TV chair, smartass."

**/And just as a final note, sorry and hardcore Sarah Brightman lovers- I'm entitled to my opinion, and personally I think ****_she_**** sounds like a dying cat with a lung infection. Only that aforementioned feline would be screeching in permanent falsetto. Please, as Erik would say, for the love of all that is music, review?**


	5. Chapter 5

**/Well, this is the last chapter I have finished as of now- the rest is on break until I get my creative juices flowing. Rather short, I admit, but it was the best place to end it until the next chapter what was semi-finished.**

***By the way, if anyone wants to see a serious story of mine- and by serious I mean a little less wacky but still with the deadpan sarcastic humor I cherish- Than check out That Which Runs Red on my page; it's two chapters in with more on the way very soon!***

**I tip my hat to Leroux for thinking up our favorite masked maniac.**

**Pretty please with cherries and Micheal Crawford's fedora on top- read, review, and possible favorite if you love!/**

"You seem to be quite amiable this evening, Miss Markely."

"As a grizzly bear, dear maestro. Now, again, get out of my TV chair before I throw you across the room by aid of a baseball bat." I watched through narrowed eyes and sopping brunette curls as Erik stood and swept across the room gracefully, that enticing fedora in hand none-the-less.

I would get that damn hat before I had to leave France, _mark my words_.

"I'll go where ever you wish me to, mademoiselle- you needn't be so forceful."

Rule number one when speaking with a guy from the Victorian age:

Try not to take most everything they say in their oldies style of talk out of context and in doing so in a perverted state of mind.

"Couch, maestro- and try not to break anything. I have to cover the bill for any repairs in this joint, and the bloody nightstand drawer already has a bent frame." I snatched a towel out of the bathroom, rubbing my head as dry as I could and then slinging the cloth over my shoulders and across my neck. Hopping on one foot, I shut the shower room door with the other and grabbing the TV remote off the end table. The weather channel came on when I clicked the power button, to my annoyance. "Oh, would you look at that? Rain. Rain. _And more bloody rain!_" I crossed my arms with a sour look on my face. "Does it _always _rain in Paris?" But, as I could have expected, my masked and rather unwelcome guest was already at the television set and ready to tear it apart to see how it worked. Grasping his sleeve, I had to literally drag him away before he would have surely broken something that I couldn't brush off as a minor mishap.

"What on Earth-"

"Later, maestro. Now, could you tell me why you stopped in here so unexpectedly?" I raised an eyebrow as his saffron gaze flicked from the TV to me, and then back and forth again to finally rest on me. With an utterly baffled gasp, he rested a hand on his hip, head cocked to one side.

"God's blood, woman, why are you wearing trousers?"

My face turn blood red and I had the dire urge to slap him-even though his statement was made without innuendo in mind.

"Erik," I began, taking a deep breath. "I swear to God, if that were coming from any other man- from any other time period, might I add- they would be going out that four story window right about now." I believe what he said finally hit him, for he gave a nervous laugh and fixed the cravat around his throat self-consciously. "Women don't wear dresses 24/7 now, maestro. _Especially not me_. It is very common to see women dressed in what you would consider men's clothes nowadays." I huffed with annoyance, one hand on my hip and my lips pursed in a pout. "You really have a lot to learn, bonehead." Removing the towel from my head, I shook like a dog, crazy curls twisting every which way and settling much like the average anime character's hairdo. "Excuse me for a moment. I have to fix this." I took the chance of leaving my masked amigo alone with all of my electronics only long enough to snatch up a hairbrush.

But of course, with the lovely luck that I have, the television remote was laid out in piece across my rug with the rubber buttons hopelessly lost in the five seconds I was gone. Erik, on the other hand, was sitting Indian-style in front of his destruction, tinkering with wires and tossing the batteries over his boney shoulder. "How the hell does this work?!" he tossed the empty remote shell with frustration. I watched with trying nerves as it smashed off of the wall.

"God above," I began plainly, staring at the ceiling. "Did I let my dog take a dump in your favorite garden or something? Or is this just your entertainment for the day?" Ripping the brush through my hair, I glared like a demon in Erik's direction. "Touch anything else, and you get no cake."

"…Cake…?"

"You freaking heard me. There's two pieces of chocolate cake in my fridge and I was going to share it with you. Break anything else, and YOU GET NONE." I emphasized each word I spoke with a stab of the hairbrush handle, taking a rubber band from around my wrist and pulling my unruly brunette curls from my eyes. Fixing the glasses resting on my nose (And making a duck-face for my own sick and twisted kicks) I opened the refrigerator door, revealing the aforementioned cake. "Now sit down, be quiet, and keep your hands in your pockets or the cake WILL be a lie."

Now, mind all you faithful readers with nothing better to do than skim through my insane chicken scrawl, the only men I was used to dealing with were my occasionally dumbass American lugs back home- which would be my older brother Bobby, two of my friend's boyfriends, and Ricky the only-guy-of-the-group-that-wasn't-one-of-the-girls '-boyfriends-and-whose- gender-we-always-questioned kind of deal (You have to have one of those in every group of friends, don't you?). In other words, I was used to deal with men that would bark for a cookie and play dead for a taco with extra cheese. Seeing the big picture here? The cake thing was worth a shot to shut O.G. up.

And it actually bloody worked.

"Good Phantom. Here is your cake."

**/no, that wasn't a blatant Portal reference... I'd never stoop THAT low into the realm of cheesy humor...*Whistles innocently before running away and cackling like a madwoman*/**


End file.
